


Society Pages

by meretricula



Category: Justice League (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, First Time, M/M, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 20:37:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17148704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meretricula/pseuds/meretricula
Summary: Bruce watched Barry snatch hors d'oeuvres from three passing trays and immediately stuff them into his mouth, then try a sip of the champagne offered to him by an over-attentive waiter, sneeze, and hand back the half-empty flute. "At least you had the sense to put him in the McQueen," he said, resigned, and made his way over to stage a rescue before the society matrons could smell blood in the water.





	Society Pages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [natacup82](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natacup82/gifts).



It never would have been a problem in the first place if Barry had had the slightest shred of self-preservational instinct or common sense. 

"Alfred," Bruce murmured, "why is Barry wandering around my ballroom wearing a tuxedo?" 

"Masters Allen and Stone arrived approximately an hour ago to borrow the use of the lab in the basement," Alfred's voice came through the hidden earpiece. "They were unaware of the fundraiser this evening. I invited them to attend the gala while their tests are running, and of course offered them appropriate clothing. Master Stone declined." 

Bruce watched Barry snatch hors d'oeuvres from three passing trays and immediately stuff them into his mouth, then try a sip of the champagne offered to him by an over-attentive waiter, sneeze, and hand back the half-empty flute. "At least you had the sense to put him in the McQueen," he said, resigned, and made his way over to stage a rescue before the society matrons could smell blood in the water. 

"Good evening, Barry," he said. 

"Oh, hi, Bruce! Man, this party is wild. Do you throw these things all the time? Who else is here? Oh, there's Diana! Let's go say hi!" 

"Barry, this is a society event, you cannot just 'go say hi' to Diana," Bruce said. "What are you doing here?" 

The look of innocent excitement in Barry's face melted away. It was like watching a soufflé collapse in slow motion, and Bruce would have felt sorry even without Alfred's disapproving huff in his ear. "Alfred said it was all right. He gave me the suit, and it fit, and he said there'd be food and I was hungry so I thought -- should I go? I can go."

"There's no need for you to leave," Bruce reassured him, already kicking himself for succumbing to the pitiful look in Barry's stupid Bambi eyes, and put a hand on the small of his back. "You can't say hello to Diana because you don't know her, remember? I'll take you over and introduce you, and then it'll be fine." 

"Oh! Right. That makes sense. Anyway, thanks for being cool about me crashing, this is like nine billion times nicer than anything I'd get to eat at home." Barry kept chattering for the entire length of their stroll across the ballroom and clearly failed to notice the sidelong looks he was attracting from every gossip in a ballgown they passed. Bruce locked eyes for a few seconds with Caroline Fairchild, the worst of the lot present, but his faith in his ability to put her off the scent was minimal at best. The relief he felt when they finally reached the safety of Diana's side was significantly greater than he would have admitted. 

"Miss Prince," he said, "may I introduce you to Barry Allen?" 

"Bruce," Diana said with a suspiciously gentle smile, "you know I've told you to call me Diana. It's lovely to meet you, Barry. I'm afraid my escort for the evening has stepped away to fetch us some champagne, but -- oh! There you are, Arthur. Have you met Barry Allen yet?" 

"I have now," Arthur said, grinning toothily. "Nice to meet you, Barry." 

"Diana," Bruce said pointedly, "is an art conservator. She's done some incredible work for the Gotham Art Museum -- just spectacular. You should ask her about the statues she's restoring." 

"None of which would have a place to be displayed without the funds you've raised for a new wing," Diana said. "We're so grateful for everything you've done for the arts in Gotham, Bruce. I hope you'll come and visit the museum when the construction is complete, Barry. You should see how your donation has been put to use." 

"Oh, is this a fundraiser?" Barry asked. Only years of training kept Bruce from putting his head in his hands. He had no idea how Barry managed not to reveal his secret identity a dozen times a day. "That's a really nice idea. Did you throw a party so you could spend time with Diana, Bruce?" 

"Certainly not. The Waynes have always prided themselves on being patrons of the arts," Bruce said, very much on his dignity, as Arthur smirked and Alfred chuckled in his ear. In point of fact he _had_ selected the Gotham Art Museum as the beneficiary of this year's gala so that he would be able to dragoon Diana into helping plan it, but he wasn't about to admit it to some wide-eyed naïf who was going to get him written up in the society pages as the latest in a long series of rich middle-aged men to make a fool of himself over a pretty face. Barry's occasional flashes of perception were doubly annoying given how rarely they were well-timed. 

"Then did you throw this party so _Alfred_ could spend time with Diana?" Barry asked. 

Bruce's earpiece abruptly went quiet, although Diana was still smiling. Bruce was willing to call it a vicarious triumph, and decided to forgive Barry for any and all further inconvenience he caused that evening. "Why don't we get you some more crab puffs," he said, raising a hand in the direction of the nearest waiter. "Did you care for the champagne?" 

Barry wrinkled his nose. "Going to be honest, I'd rather have a coke." 

"There's no reason why you shouldn't. Wayne Manor is prepared to meet the needs of all of her guests. Why don't you stay and chat with Diana and Arthur, and I'll bring you your drink." 

"I'll have a waiter bring over Master Allen's beverage, sir," Alfred said in his ear. "There's no need for you to step away." 

"If I _don't_ , Vicki Vale is going to have Barry's face splashed across the Gotham Gazette's website before the end of the night, which seems like a pretty good reason to me," Bruce subvocalized. "Why don't you get out from behind the monitor for the evening? Bring Barry his drink yourself. You can say hi to Diana while you're at it." 

Alfred's offended silence was balm to Bruce's soul, and sustained him through the next hour of inane conversation with the upper crust of Gotham society. If one more man who'd inherited a stock portfolio from his parents and maintained it with insider tips from his old Wharton buddies felt the need to tell him that investing in public schools was pissing good money after bad, Batman was going to have a whole new grade of criminals to hunt down. 

The constant discreet inquiries into the identity of the lovely young man he'd been escorting were no less annoying, although at least they had the benefit of novelty. After the fifth time Bruce was forced to smile blandly and invent an innocuous reason why a forensic scientist from Central City would be at a highly exclusive fundraiser for the Gotham Art Museum, even the novelty was gone, and all that was left was the lingering, slow-burning desire to cannibalize an entire social class. And the further into the evening (and the champagne supply) they got, the less discreet the inquiries became. The look the mayor was giving Barry was downright salacious, he thought, and resisted the urge to bare his teeth. 

"What a beautiful party you've thrown," a woman's voice interrupted his murderous train of thought. 

"Ms. Lane," Bruce said as he turned to face her, smiling genuinely for once, "to what do we owe the pleasure? I had no idea we would be graced with your presence." 

"The _Planet_ 's usual society reporter is out with the flu, I'm afraid. Have you met my husband before? I've shamelessly abused my press pass to bring him along. Journalists don't get to sample this quality of catering too often." 

"I think we've attended a few of the same parties," Bruce said. 

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Wayne." Bruce took in the butter-wouldn't-melt smile on Clark's face and braced himself for the incoming jab: Clark was, he was pretty sure, physically incapable of toning down his Midwestern farm boy brand of passive-aggression. The wait didn't take long. "Your gentleman friend over there sure is a handsome one! Are you sure you should be leaving him all on his own at a party like this?" 

"I don't know what the customs are in Kansas, but in Gotham it's not traditional to chain an attractive acquaintance to one's arm as decoration for the duration of a soiree," Bruce said, sweet as low-calorie sugar substitute. "I'm sure Mr. Allen is well able to take care of himself." 

"Actually, I think he could use a rescue," his earpiece suddenly came to life, not with Alfred's voice but Victor's. Bruce immediately resolved to upgrade his network security. "One of the pearl choker types is getting real up-close and personal right now." 

Clark faked a laugh and slapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble, giving him an excuse to turn and catch a glimpse of Caroline Fairchild swooping in for the kill. Bruce felt a chill presentiment of disaster mixed with rage: he had _warned_ her. "Go get him, tiger," Clark said, and he went. 

"Excuse me," Bruce said with the most charming smile he could muster, sliding an arm around Barry's waist. "I just need to steal Barry away for a moment. So terribly sorry." 

Barry let himself be tugged away with only the smallest pout — in the direction of the crab puffs, but Bruce knew that wouldn't be the story making the rounds of Gotham's gossip blogs in the morning. He'd probably only made the situation worse: now he would be a _jealous_ cradle-snatching corrupter of the innocent. "Man, whoever caters your parties deserves a raise, all the food is awesome. And everyone is so nice!" Barry said. "I was really scared that nobody would talk to me except Arthur and Diana but everyone kept introducing themselves. It's funny, they all asked how I knew you." 

"And what did you tell them?" Bruce asked, cold fingers of dread running down his spine. 

"Don't make that face, I didn't say we were superhero buddies or anything like that. I just said we had mutual friends." 

Bruce removed the earpiece: he didn't want to hear a word of what Victor (or worse, Alfred) might have to say about this. "Barry," he said calmly, "you realize that everyone in that room now thinks that you're my lover. That is exactly the sort of vague backstory you would have provided if we were involved and preparing to go public with our relationship, and a gala at Wayne Manor is the logical location to stage a hypothetical debut." 

"What? No way. Nobody would ever think that you — and _me_ — "

"It is a natural assumption when someone in my position is seen spending a significant amount of time at a party with a much younger, beautiful man." 

"You think I'm beautiful?" Barry asked, fixating on exactly the wrong part of Bruce's statement. 

"I'm not so old and decrepit that my eyesight has begun to deteriorate, thank you. You know what you look like." 

"Uh, I know I'm a midtwenties garbage fire who still gets acne breakouts, whereas you're — you know, you look like you know how to exfoliate properly and you're constantly radiating silver fox hot daddy energy all over the place, so — oh god, _please_ shut me up, I've embarrassed myself enough to fulfill my yearly quota."

"I gather that that string of epithets was intended as a compliment," Bruce said, "but I have to admit I'm not exactly sure what they mean. Barry, you're an extremely attractive young man, and I assure you that if the assumptions made about us tonight were correct, I would feel both fortunate and honored to enjoy your company." 

"Well. That's." Barry stopped walking, and when Bruce looked back at him there was an expression on his face that he couldn't read. "Huh." 

"Not that -- please do not take this as an overture or -- "

"Shh," Barry interrupted, actually _holding up his hand_ like a pedestrian asking a motorist for right of way. Bruce couldn't decide whether he was amused or offended. "Processing." 

"Is this going to take long? I only ask because I will eventually have to return to my party and reassure the gossips that I haven't dragged you off to ravish you -- "

"Done now," Barry announced, and then he must have used his superspeed, because before Bruce blinked he was standing several feet away, and when Bruce reopened his eyes they were kissing. 

Barry's lithe young body felt every bit as good pressed up against Bruce's as he'd imagined, shamefully, on several post-mission occasions he would have died before owning up to. He didn't remember deciding to grab Barry's ass, but it was in his hands and it was absolutely delicious, and then Barry hummed into his mouth and jumped up and wrapped those unbelievably long legs around his waist, and it was -- 

"Wait," Bruce said, panting. Barry was slender, but the body mass he did have was almost solid muscle: he wasn't light. "Wait." 

"Nope, done waiting, now we're fucking," Barry said cheerfully. "Closest bedroom, get going." 

There were many reasons why this was a bad idea, only it was hard for Bruce to think of them with Barry clinging to his shoulders and devouring his mouth, and somehow he was stumbling into the elevator, and out of the elevator, and down the hall to his bedroom without common sense once managing to overcome the distraction of Barry grinding his rapidly hardening dick against Bruce's abs. He thought they might have knocked over a Meissen vase at some point. He really didn't care. 

Barry did pause for a moment when Bruce set him down in the bedroom, looking around with enormous eyes. "Wow," he said. "Is that — Jesus Christ, there are stairs going up to the bed." 

"Is that a problem?" Bruce said uncertainly. It wasn't that he was unaware that his bedroom, like everything else in Wayne Manor, was opulent to the outer limit of good taste, but usually when he slept with people it was to maintain his cover, and the ostentatious displays of wealth were either commonplace or part of the appeal. 

"Not a problem, just adjusting my ambitions for the evening a little. You're going to fuck my brains out on that bed, daddy. We're going to wreck this place. It's going to look like an entire sorority had a pillow fight in here before we're done. Sound all right to you?" 

Bruce was still a little stuck on the "daddy" thing, and he didn't realize what Barry was planning until he'd supersped them both out of their clothing and settled himself on the bed in a pose that hovered right on the border between seductive and ridiculous. "Oh," Bruce said, looking at the pieces of Barry's extremely expensive suit strewn across the floor. "I was looking forward to doing that." 

"Next time." Barry shrugged, an inexplicably graceful gesture that made Bruce's tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. Time stretched oddly while he stood there and took it all in: Barry, the bed, the contrast of the white sheets and navy curtains and pink skin and the dark thatch of hair at Barry's groin and the blood-dark cock rising out of it. The time distortion wasn't anything Barry was doing, Bruce didn't think, or not anything he was using his powers for, anyway. It was just that the roaring in his ears and the throbbing of his erection made it hard to think clearly. The next thing he knew he was standing over Barry pushing those pale thighs apart, and he had more pressing things to do than ask what exactly "next time" was supposed to mean.

*

Bruce struggled up from the depths of sleep reluctantly, dragged to the surface by the sudden intrusion of light across his face. "Good morning, sir," Alfred said, in a perfectly neutral voice. Years of familiarity rendered the mockery beneath it fully audible to Bruce. "May I ask if your guest will be staying for breakfast?" 

Guest. _Guest_. The previous night replayed behind Bruce's eyelids at a speed that even the Flash would have envied. When he reached the part where he had dragged Barry away from Caroline Fairchild in full view of an entire ballroom full of Gotham high society like some sort of jealous cross between Bluebeard and a Neanderthal, he let out a groan and flung an arm across his face, hoping against hope that Alfred would tell him that Poison Ivy had dosed him with some new sort of pollen and he'd hallucinated the whole thing. 

"Did somebody say breakfast?" Barry chirped from the other side of the bed, extinguishing even that faint sliver of optimism. 

"Good morning, Master Allen," Alfred said, significantly more warmly than he'd addressed Bruce. "What may I prepare for you?" 

" _Please_ call me Barry? And, uh, eggs. Maybe bacon? Oh, and toast! I eat, like, a _lot_ , I don't know if that's a problem — "

"Absolutely no problem, Master Barry," Alfred assured him. "Master Wayne, whenever you decide to emerge from your sulk and behave like a gentleman, or at the least an adult, I will have coffee waiting." 

Bruce winced behind his forearm and refused to move until he heard the door shut behind Alfred. He'd known he would pay for teasing about Diana, but it felt disproportionate and frankly unfair for reckoning to come upon him before noon. "Wow," Barry said. The sheet covering Bruce started to slide away, and he grabbed for it before he could be completely exposed. When he opened his eyes, Barry was sitting upright and looking around with open curiosity. "This place looks really different in daylight. Less 'welcome to my boudoir-slash-sex-dungeon', which I guess makes sense, who uses a sex dungeon during the day? Not that I'm judging," he added hastily. "If you're into that, I'm totally cool with it, and I am willing to negotiate. Good, giving and game for whatever!" 

"Barry," Bruce cut him off, before his monologue could get any more agonizing, "this cannot happen again. It should never have happened in the first place. It was wrong of me to even suggest, and I can only apologize and assure you that it will have no effect on our working relationship." 

"Oh boy, here we go," Barry said. 

"Excuse me?" Bruce sat up, dragging as much of the sheet as he could into his lap, and mustered up a Batman glare. It lacked some of the usual force without the cowl. 

"I said, 'oh boy here we go,'" Barry said flatly. "Go on, lay it on me. You obviously have some very flattering opinions about what was, by the way, a mutually enjoyable and completely consensual sexual encounter, so you might as well get them off your chest." 

"I'm not going to take advantage of — I'm old enough to be your father," Bruce said. He would have deeply, _deeply_ preferred to be having this conversation while clothed in something other than a sheet. "At your age you should be making horrible mistakes with some asshole named Chad who only drinks craft beer and wears boat shoes unironically. Not wasting your time on a forty-something with post-traumatic stress disorder and a vigilante alter-ego." 

Barry looked at him skeptically. "You were impregnating girls when you were fourteen?" 

" _Almost_ old enough to be your father, fine. My point still stands." 

"Can I rephrase your argument, so that you can hear how it sounds? You think I need a — what, a practice relationship, or a series of practice relationships, with people who won't be good for me because I'll learn something from the experience that will be useful to me later in life, and I shouldn't be practicing with you because you already have enough experience to have a _real_ relationship, which is not what I'm ready for." 

"That's not exactly -- "

"Whereas out here in the real world, as opposed to the condescending fantasy world in your head, I am not a kid. I am not _your_ kid. Newsflash, I've had my fair share of relationships already, both good ones and bad ones, and I can tell you what made them fail wasn't needing the kind of experience you're talking about, Bruce. The problem is that the kind of experiences I've had aren't something I can share with most people. Craft beer-drinking garden-variety assholes aren't superheroes, okay? I'm never going to be able to share my life with someone I meet at work, or in a cafe, or on fucking Tinder. And I get where you're coming from, you know, I'm aware I'm a lot younger than you. But you have to get that I'm probably never going to be as old as you are now. Like, statistically speaking, I do not have superstrength or invulnerability and sooner or later something is going to hit me before I can run away and that's going to be it. So I'd kind of like to do what I want now and not worry about hitting life milestones at the appointed times, you know? And also, by the way, we clearly both enjoyed ourselves last night and I would be fine with giving it another try, maybe with some more lead time and equipment, but I didn't ask you if you wanted to be my fucking boyfriend!" 

He jumped down and started picking up the scattered components of last night's outfit, his back turned resolutely to the bed. Bruce was well-versed in ignoring the creeping realization that he was in the wrong, and he could just about compartmentalize away the knowledge that he was never going to be able to take that suit off Barry piece by piece, but every line of Barry's body screamed how much Bruce had hurt and offended him, and somewhat to his own surprise, Bruce found that he could not actually bear it. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You're right, that was very condescending of me." 

Barry turned around, still holding his shirt in his hands. "Stop the presses, did Bruce Wayne just admit he was wrong about something?" 

"I don't think I'm wrong," Bruce said. "I'm too old for you and this was a bad idea. But you're right, too. You're an adult and a superhero, and it's not my business to tell you what you should want or how to live your life." 

"Okay, I appreciate your honesty," Barry said after a moment. "But I have to be honest too, I'm getting some seriously mixed signals here." 

"Can you understand that this can be a bad idea for reasons that have nothing to do with you and everything to do with me? I am not the kind of man who lets go of things," Bruce said, with some difficulty. "I don't think you realize exactly what you would be... there are reasons why I have avoided serious relationships of any kind. I'm not -- good at them." 

Barry crossed his arms over his chest. "Is it supposed to be news to me that you're a giant possessive control-freak weirdo? I _know_ you, Bruce. So here's how this is going to go. We are going to go eat breakfast, and I'm going to check in with Victor about how our tests went, then I have to speed back to Central City, because unlike you I'm not a billionaire and I need to work for a living, and I will call you after work. We will discuss our feelings like adults, and whether we are interested in pursuing the possibility of a sexual relationship, and probably also the daddy thing, because I can't tell if you're embarrassed to be into it or really viscerally turned off by it. You are going to give me the respect of taking it seriously and not just rejecting the idea out of hand because you're freaked out by the idea of having an emotion, and I'm going to give you the respect of accepting your answer, whether it's one I'm hoping for or not. Does that sound like something you can live with?" 

"I think so, yes," Bruce managed. 

"Okay." Barry flashed him a quick smile and kissed him lingeringly enough that Bruce was starting to regret the fact that Alfred was waiting for them by the time he stepped away. "Consider that part of my campaign for an answer I'll like."


End file.
